She must have had the help of the man with the specs--she would not be able to understand my scratching. They must have been busy all day!

But what really gets me wild--almost all of my letters to Goroshkin are here! How did she get them? I understand why Goroshkin's letters missed me--she got them!... Now I understand what she meant by saying that I was trying to double cross her! In fact Lucie is right,--and that's why it's maddening. I wonder what Goroshkin and Marchenko think of me? To whom I must seem a swine! And what a bad way of her's, to leave my letters--a present for me!

She did what she wanted, this creature of intrigues and no personality: with "lips of fire and heart of stone." She got in me a good guardian of her barn, a good transport agent for her Britishers and Letts, she tangled me up in such a way that I could not report on her, she enjoyed the privileges of local Soviet's protection through me,--in short all she wanted.... And here I am alone from now on,--Good-by"--that's all. She left me this little note--and a bitter feeling that formerly I was not alone,--and now I am. For these sensations of lonesomeness a man should never start companionships,--whether with a woman, or a dog, or even a goldfish.

The one who is alone--is alone. The one that becomes alone--feels doubly rotten....

"Quidquid ages--prudenter agas, et respice finem"--and I was a fool,--here I am alone like Shelly's moon, and "pardessus-le-marche"--robbed! Am I not an old ass?

She will laugh with her silvery laughter in somebody else's house, she will mend somebody else's socks, and sit on somebody else's lap. The "other chap from Monte Carlo," will be asked whether he remembers _me_. And the other chap will probably answer her, as I did. How tactless!

My God! Long and uninteresting life looks to me! Does it only look, or did it become?... I must sleep all of this off!

37

My sole connection with the rest of the world is my work in the Princess' garden. A dull, tiresome, uninteresting work, in fact--labor. As a diversion--the corpulent cook. My God! If she would only wash oftener!...

When I come home--I look out of the small window; the landscape is magnificent: about twenty yards of virgin soil with Spring grass on it and the barn on the horizon. Behind--the fence, over which I see the tops of the heads of passers-by.

"Suave mari magno turbantibus aequora ventis spectare laborem...." I forget how it runs further! My latin gets weak. I wish I had Virgil, or even "Commentarii de Bello Gallico." I'd be arrested and tried if I asked for them in a book store....

If only I could obtain some money, and buy a decent suit and get away,--to Vladivostok, and then through America to France. It seems as though France is all. It is life. It is salvation from my miseries.

In the evenings I try to arrange in shape my documents and writings after the looting. For the documents I could be well paid, here,--but I do not want that. Let the Russia of to-morrow see what has been done by our present leaders, and by those who gave us to the scaffold....

M. Kerensky's letter to Grimm--alone would make me happy if some day its contents are known....

Where is Lucie now? How empty my house is!

The Princess came out to me in the garden and asked me whether I could go to Tobolsk and deliver a letter to Mr. Botkin there.

"Of course, I can, your Ladyship, if I have enough money."

"I don't mean that," she answered coldly, looking with disgust at the manure I was mixing, "don't worry, we will pay you. I mean whether you could arrange with your Bolsheviki for a permit."

"Why not?" I answered, "they do not want _me_. I am not a _rich man_, nor a _Nobleman_...." (I simply love to annoy her).

"That will do, Alexei," she said, casting at me a nasty look, "You may come for the letter at dinner time. Tell the cook that you want to see me."

She does not think that I am a man. She hates me. Under my beard and shabby flannel shirt she sees neither my face nor my person. She has no shame before me: were I in my uniform of a gentleman-in-waiting, cleanly shaven and speaking her language, and not in the one I acquired lately, she would have buttoned her shoes, gartered her stockings, and would not have shown the bad quality of her corset cover under her wide-opened _robe-de-chambre_. If she only knew how her hired help understood her.

At four I was in the kitchen. Here--another interesting phase of life!

The woman from Moscow who claims to be a cook, does not think I am from her midst, but feels with her organic cleverness that I am an imposter.

"You,--gentry! You liar! Hate your face! Hope the devil will get you soon!" she says,--but she isn't a bad woman, she means well, only she is not as clean as her profession demands. Altogether the kitchen is a mournful place.

"What is your business?" she asked, "You want to see the Princess?

Don't lie to me!"

"My business is none of your business," said I, "Forget it! Better tell me if I can have some beer? Go on, cookie, lay it out. Don't be so stingy!"

The stubborn woman would not give it to me, until I took her gently around the waist and pinched her arm with all of my force,--that's the way to get cook's sympathies; it's astonishing how it works! I got some beer.

Then I was invited in: "Come in, you scabby devil."

"You will have to take this," said the Princess, giving me a letter so that she wouldn't touch my hand, "and be sure they don't catch you with the letter. Be careful, don't drink, Alexei. It's bad to drink; when you come back we'll give you 500 rubles."

"_Je ne le tolere pas_," she said to the Prince, "_il a l'air si commun! Il nous vendrait tous, s'il etait assez intelligent_!"

The Prince did not answer (I guess he knows more than her Highness) and looked aside, grumbling something just to calm his better half.

I stared at her, just to scare this bad female, from under my eyebrows.

"_Vous voyez_," the Princess almost cried, "_Vous voyez! Mon Dieu!

Quel type horrible! J'ai peur de lui! C'est un degenere! il nous trahira_!" She complimented me in this manner for a while, and then started to give me some silly instructions,--how to get there, etc.

Finally, I left the house, went to Schmelin and got his permission in a minute, and tonight--I am leaving.

My house and all in it will be taken good care of,--Schmelin promised to look after it.

Good-by, my humble hut! Good-by Tumen!

III. TOBOLSK

III. TOBOLSK

39

The Irtysh opened its dark blue streams for navigation not so long ago. From my place on the deck I see spots of old yellowish snow on the hills; near the banks--the fresh, innocent grass is already daring to appear on the surface. Peasants are doing something on the vast plains. The very, very old story of the mythical Lei! White and chaste birches, triste and flirtatious women amongst the trees, are trimming their Spring fashion dresses.

However this coming back to life, of the hills, and plains, and trees, this warmth in the air--does not affect the passengers. Who in the devil will nowadays snivel about Spring and myths? All sentiment died in Russia; everything, at least, looks dead,--but the co-operative Societies: they plan a large business, meaning "trusts" when they advertise for "co-operation."

With the exception of the representatives of the "Creamery Union" (who were fat and noisy),--the rest of our fellow-travelers were gloomy and sordid; I rarely could detect a smile, and if there was a hilarious expression, it was at somebody's expense, always malicious and malignant. A boy cut his little finger and squealed for "mama" like a young pig--people smiled. An old woman passed on the deck and fell so badly that tears came into her colorless eyes--smiles became bright and gay; somebody even whistled. A stowaway was caught in the baggage room--a pale faced young chap with a forlorn expression--the crew committee started to "investigate" (just undressed him on the deck)--and people became joyful and gigglish....

Is it my people? Are _those_ bad creatures--our men who fought in the snows of Hungary armed with fists and patriotism,--for the munitions were yet the subject of speculations; did these men cross the scorched plains of Persia, sent there clad in uniforms prepared for Archangel?

_Did they_ make efforts to save small mutilated nations? Is the history of Russia--these pages of blood and sacrifices--_made by them_? Did Russia take _from them_ Pushkin, Chaikovsky, Mechnikov, Tolstoi and the brilliant web of savants, musicians, soldiers, explorers and poets?...

I am from this same bulk that centuries ago came from Asia and settled here. They--and I are the same. But I can't understand them! In France, in England, in Germany, I could understand the crowd better.